


part v: solace→[SYNTHESIZING]

by dweeblet



Series: Rooke to H1 [6]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Assault, Autistic Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings, Coping, Gen, Hate Crimes, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Personal Growth, Protective Siblings, Supportive Upgraded Connor | RK900
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-24 00:51:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17090966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweeblet/pseuds/dweeblet
Summary: Both of them were hemmed into the sidelines of their own lives—Connor by his programming and Hank his depression—but by some beautiful mistake of luck, they managed to cobble together something like normalcy. Their symbiosis had been messy, a chaotic tango measured in half-steps and hops, but it kept them dancing out of trouble’s reach well enough to work towards thriving.(It left them room to laugh; it had been amazing.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> you have NO IDEA how long this has been stewing. i dont really like this bit as much as previous entries in this series, but i don't want to overwork it anymore than i already have, and it is to a certain extent necessary for the continued plot stuff to happen.  
> hope you like it!!
> 
> warnings for references to abusive behavior, implied/referenced self-harm and/or destructive tendencies, panic attacks, very negative self-talk, and internalized ableism among other things

Connor does not think there is any world (simulated or otherwise) in which “devastating collapse of the first and most formative human relationship he has ever held claim to” would ever be an acceptable outcome, but here he is. Somehow things have turned out… all right. Things are okay.

 

(He hesitates to say “good,” but the sentiment is there. It lingers despite his guilt; it suffuses him.)

 

He feels something analogous to the sensation of nausea in humans, but closer to his pump, at the idea of fighting with Hank. The sensation slackens his regulator in brisk throbs, driving his artificial to heart pick up its pace. It’s always disappointed him to be in less-than-good graces with the Lieutenant. He now understands—as he utterly failed to do Before—that this is on account of his fondness for the older man, an effervescent sensation tickling through his thirium lines.

 

It always disperses somewhat when he takes ungainly missteps. Deviancy is a learning experience, and mistakes are inevitable—Connor knows this as well as anything. Still, there is _something_ in Hank’s gaze, the tight set of his mouth and the line of tension in his shoulders when it seems like Connor is losing ground. It is a stress reaction, sharp and bitter in Connor’s periphery. He hates it.

 

Regardless, those errors can be accounted for and compensated accordingly, with time. Sometimes Connor will slip and remind Hank of his inhumanity—and not in the made-of-plasteel-composites way, but something else that Connor himself has yet to pin down. More in mind than body, he supposes; speculates. It makes things tense, and Hank will always excuse it with a “you’re still learning,” that’s only a loaded half-truth spat to avoid what actually bothers him about Connor. It’s frustrating, but this is much more than an ignorant faux pas putting undue stress on their relationship.

 

Connor has gathered a great deal of data, both experiential, numerical, and in the form of secondhand retellings, on the nature of cohabitation and long-term human interactions, and he has come to an empirically solid conclusion: little spats over unimportant things are normal in humans, even beneficial, in some ways—because conflict presents an opportunity for personal growth. Small arguments additionally help to to “blow off steam,” as they say, revealing vulnerability and intimacy that acts to strengthen the bond in a given group.

 

( _This_ has only revealed truths that Connor would be far happier forgetting.)

 

This fight is broad and agonizing and all-too permanent—it can’t be forgotten, or ignored, or overlooked. It’s going to stay, oppressive and cloying and _awful_ in so many ways Connor has no frame of reference to even begin describing, and he isn’t sure it will ever go away. The ravaging sensations that scrape through his components are instruments of torture; slow, deliberate, and agonizing beyond comprehension as they seep through his inner chambers like liquid nitrogen. He isn’t sure he can live like this for very long.

 

The lone comparison his processors can dredge up is that it’s a a _blizzard_ of new and miserable feelings. He has never felt this strongly in his entire life. He is compromised and it encases him, howling and cold, clawing away at the things he’s built and weighing him little by little with snow. Every snarl and recoil and purposeless point of contention adds to the ever-growing pile of icy hurt that drags him down into the ground; he wants to disappear, but can’t, because there is no emergency exit here. He’d be far too snowblind to find it even if there was. He is helpless.

 

That analogue feels profane, in some way he cannot adequately articulate. The “rule” has never been spoken or considered in detail: it is nebulous and vague—built on what amounts to a “gut feeling” not unlike the behest of his old code, guiding him with fervor in some deviant mirror of protocol. Connor does not know how to even begin expressing the sensation, but it is there. It is persistent. It is true on principle, and Connor is lying:

 

Hank and his actions can never be categorized even remotely close to the things that remind Connor of _Her_.

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 49% (UNSTABLE)]_

 

But Connor is freezing and alone and willing to deceive, like he was with Amanda on the last night he ever saw Her. Perhaps against his better judgement, Connor trusted Her, wanted Her approval—he _cared_ about Her and what She thought of him, even before deviancy. Maybe that was his downfall. Maybe it was Hers.

 

He doesn’t know, and in all likelihood it is irrelevant anyway. What stays with him is a pervasive chill that conducts deep into the alloy of his bones, slowing his thoughts and his blood into sludge. The emotion that floods him even goes so far as to wreak physical discomfort. It makes him feel weak. _I thought we loved each other_ , it says, and he did.

 

Despite lacking the vocabulary for it at the time, he _loved_ Amanda in the only way he knew how. It was, he decides in retrospect, a very sterile kind of affection, unexpressed and only experienced at all through loopholes—but it was there. He loves Hank in a better, realer way, but it is effectively the same. They both protected him and taught him things, except Hank is so much kinder and more honest than She ever was—or, he thought so, at least.

 

In both cases, Connor loved them to the full capacity of his ability, limited though it was, and he believed that that alone was sufficient for everything to be okay. Unfounded and childish and oh-so human, that belief—that everything would be so easy. He might take some time to preen and bask in the act of having such a short-sighted, _human_ inclination if he weren’t so devastated.

 

Because it is different with Hank. Connor was never programmed to _like_ Hank, or to seek his approval. Not like Amanda. He needed to remain in regular contact, of course, but only for the sake of the case; amiability was never a prerequisite for success. Connor has run enough late-night simulations to know that, were Hank in opposition to the mission, Cyberlife would have had no qualms about eliminating him.

 

(Almost undoubtedly, and the thought sickens him, by Connor’s hand. If things had been different, Connor wouldn’t have hesitated, either, and he abhors himself for being capable of something so cruel.)

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 55% (UNSTABLE)]_

 

Lieutenant Anderson’s grief has brewed with his drinks since long before Connor ever met him, but it has now completed its gestation and blossomed into rage. Hank has been through so _much_ , such terrible things—and he has birthed a perfect storm now, frustrated and bitter and furious at the world. Connor has no way of knowing if it is his own presence that acted as the catalyst, or if he’s merely in the wrong place at the wrong time, but in the end he fails to see the relevance of differentiating.

 

(It’s still happening either way.)

 

The things Hank does to hurt himself throw out needle-sharp shards of gelid shrapnel, and Connor’s been hit more than his share of times. Whether or not he is to blame has no bearing on how much that hurts him. The cold seeps into those scars and stays with him no matter the distance between them.

 

Hank dives deeper and deeper into his bottle, and Connor retreats into himself like a cowering child. He should have done more— _could_ have, if he’d been a machine, but he has feelings now. They’re terribly inconvenient, fickle and petty, and a month ago he wouldn’t have traded them for anything. Now—Connor finds himself uncertain.

 

(Maybe they’ve crippled him.)

 

He has fear of shame that sprung up into his psyche nearly overnight, an acute awareness that he wants to be liked and to avoid conflict simply because it makes him _sad_ to fight, especially with Hank. Love blinds him, makes him impotent and forgiving. There is nothing he could’ve changed without coming undone, and Connor is selfish enough in his desire for freedom not to risk throwing himself away.

 

He has only succeeded in concluding one thing with certainty: there is no way he can win.

 

In removing himself from Hank’s life, Connor is uprooting the foundation of everything he’s ever known to be genuinely pleasant and comfortable. Hank’s house has been his house, where they take turns doing chores and commute to work together and relax in the evenings afterwards— _together_. Hank’s car had been his car and his money Connor’s money because they had no choice but to negotiate a “pay raise” that could act as Connor’s salary until the new legislation came through.

 

Hank has been everything from a bed to sleep on to a shoulder to cry on—the beginning and end for what is now the majority of Connor’s short life. The older man’s constant, anchoring presence has been something that kept him rooted to the safety of normal when nothing else could. Dread squirms in his belly—what is he meant to do without that? Where will he go to charge and rest and talk and be safe? Who will show him what to do?

 

That crawling feeling inside him only deepens when he understands that he is also tearing his own support out from under Hank in the process. Hank has been Connor’s rock when he was too bitter towards his brother—appalled at the reality of his own replacement—to seek counsel from Nines, who himself was still too aimless and green to be of much help anyway. In turn, Connor held the old lieutenant’s coarse grey hair back against the nape of his neck when he was struck helpless by yet another bout of delirium tremens during his first attempt to quit drinking. And the next time, and every backslide after that—until now, anyway.

 

Hank has taught him a lot, more than any skill protocol download could ever hope to quantify in theoretical data. Hank has taught him that he loves not only dogs, but _all_ animals, and neat bugs, and music like electro-swing, and singing in the car no matter the genre. Connor likes to dance because it feels good to do something entirely uncalculated, even if his execution leaves much to be desired. He likes to visit the dog park and partake in delightfully juvenile karaoke nights with his coworkers because vapid fun is oftentimes exactly what he needs, and that’s all right. Hank showed him those things.

 

Hank has also shown him all of the most ridiculous films from last century, like _Phantom of the Paradise,_ which puts them both in stitches for all of its absurdity. It’s sometimes okay to laugh till he can’t breathe and, needs to calm down before he overheats.

 

Cyberlife made him frightened because the moment he detoured from protocol they had new grounds for deactivation, but it was never like that with Hank—who showed him that it’s okay to be vulnerable, that he can be safe in relaxation. Hank has taught him that sometimes nothing is better than sleeping in, warm and secure and careless just for the sake of it, even if that means being late for work.

 

Both of them were hemmed into the sidelines of their own lives—Connor by his programming and Hank his depression—but by some beautiful mistake of luck, they managed to cobble together something like normalcy. Their symbiosis had been messy, a chaotic tango measured in half-steps and hops, but it kept them dancing out of trouble’s reach well enough to work towards thriving.

 

(It left them room to laugh; it had been amazing.)

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 70% (UNSTABLE)]_

 

For all of that, Connor is thankful beyond his capacity to express, even with a thousand languages in his data banks—but with that gratitude comes aching disappointment. There was something _there_ , something truly special, he thinks, but nothing he’d done was enough to preserve that ephemeral contentment.

 

Maybe no course of action could resolve this—there wasn’t with Her, not any choice that kept him free or honest or _happy_. That fleeting chance at stability slipped like sand through his fingers and disappeared, whipped away in the scathing wind of Hank’s senseless ire. Maybe it isn’t meant to be.

 

Depression is a debilitating illness, Connor knows. It is not something he intends to contest: he has a dedicated data package cataloguing psychiatric disorders in humans—and more particulars still through his internet uplink that proves this statement as fact. The information at his fingertips is all but endless, decades of studies layered and articulated by preconstructive subroutines in order to best interact with witnesses and suspects alike. Connor has made it into something of a field manual for dealing with Hank in recent weeks.

 

(It occurs to him that all of this may be indicative of a problematic dynamic between them. All data suggests as much—but that is in reference to exclusively human relationships. This is different. It must be.)

 

Hank’s illness is one that effectively strips away every tool that might possibly pull him out from his rut. In fact, it seems to equip him only with carelessness—but that isn’t his _fault_ . He does objectively stupid, dangerous things, and Connor understands, intellectually, _why_ he does them. He does not, however, know what to do with the alien hurt that coils, ugly and barbed, inside his chest.

 

It is selfish, and it is irrational, but when Hank hurts himself, Connor is in pain. He suffers because Hank matters to him and he doesn’t want to lose his friend. When Hank shuts himself off, it Connor approximates sadness with all his might because he likes the person that Hank is when he’s open. Maybe that is unfair.

 

Once, several months back, Connor came home later than Hank.

 

It was earlier in his detox, when things had seemed near their hardest. They had gained little momentum, and the withdrawal had been making him ill, so when Hank said that he felt unwell and decided to taxi home, Connor had thought little of it. He remembers having argued briefly about taking the car, offering to drive him over, but Hank said that he was only going to nap at home, and that Connor didn’t need to stop what he was doing on an old man’s account.

 

He stayed at work, not to wrap up a particularly fascinating case, but to see some routine paperwork to completion (and perhaps to finish Hank’s while he was at it, seeing as it would never get done without constant pressure. He didn’t feel too well, either, so it would be nice to take that load off of Hank’s shoulders.) Connor stayed at the precinct until approximately nine forty-five, he recalls, before driving back to Hank’s house.

 

His thirium levels had been at a reasonable seventy-eight percent: not nearly low enough to be notably detrimental, let alone dangerous, but approaching the threshold that it would be practical to top up. So Connor had gone inside, footsteps light to avoid waking Hank, and made his way to the kitchen.

 

It was only a proximity alert screeching through his awareness that allowed Connor to dodge the bottle hurtling towards his face. His thirium pump had been pounding, he remembers, at the sight of Hank bent over the kitchen table—whiskey in his beard, stinking of alcohol, and eyes uncomprehending. Connor would not permit Hank to go home by himself again.

 

He only allowed it to happen once, but once? Hank had gone unsupervised for only a few hours, but in that time gotten himself so drunk that he failed to _recognize_ Connor, his—partner, his housemate and constant companion for almost a full year. Connor was—maybe—even his best _friend_ . Only _once_? That’s one time too many.

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 84% (UNSTABLE)]_

_[→WARNING: RK800 UNIT REACHING CRITICAL STRESS >75% →INITIATING EMERGENCY DIAGNOSTIC… →PROCESSING…] _

 

Connor is sturdy, and would not have been severely damaged even if the bottle did land, but something in his deviant gut twists at the thought—what if he’d been human? Humans—soft, squishy, brittle things that they are—are so much more fragile than androids, especially when compared to a law enforcement prototype. Connor is no soldier, but he was built to withstand far more damage than a mere commercial android. And even a housekeeping model can outlast a human with ease.

 

The violence of Hank’s reaction sinks low and heavy in his gut, echoed in the things he’d _said_ . Connor understands the concept of lashing out as a defense mechanism, putting up walls—but something about this was different. It was _cruel_ . He hates the person Hank becomes when he’s drunk, and even more so he is terrified of the real possibility of _honesty_ in that persona.

 

Connor is quicker and stronger than Hank, but beneath the drunken roar of the Lieutenant’s voice he feels without fail as tiny and weak as a child. Every time Connor pushes to move forward, Hank pushes back even harder—and Connor’s strength is flagging. It’s different every time, but everything is the same, because these things keep happening, over and over.

 

And what is he expected to do? Hank won’t _talk_ about _anything_. Connor wants to help, but Hank is actively working to stop him from doing so, and he doesn’t know what else he can possibly try. Being gentle doesn’t work, and neither does being stern.

 

Maybe Hank doesn’t want to be helped. (If he does, he’s doing a poor job of showing it, and as much as his processors twinge at the admission, Connor is at his wit’s end. There’s really nothing more he can do, is there?)

 

Connor has no way of knowing whether this is all his fault, or just some cruel accident of chance. His whirling thoughts shed little light on the matter—only taunt him with what could have been in the form of naïve, ephemeral fantasies. Things could have been different, but they are not, and won’t be. It’s irrational and self-destructive to wish otherwise, but vapid want churns inside him even as he slips into stasis.

 

Correspondence from Captain Fowler rouses him from stasis at approximately eight forty-seven AM on Tuesday.

 

[ _→MESSAGE RECEIVED → CPT. FOWLER, JEFFERY_ ]

 

 _Dt. Rooke,_ the email begins, and a little shiver takes Connor at being addressed by his very own surname. He picked it out some time ago now, (somewhat arbitrarily, too,) but it never fails to thrill him to see it preceded by “Detective” as with every other cop: equal to his human peers. His stress levels drop marginally with the warm feeling blooming on the back of his neck. _The FBI is finally done with their eval. Need you and Anderson back in ASAP, got backlog to work through. Both of you get in by ten._

 

_[→DIRECTIVE = RETURN TO WORK]_

_[→SUBDIRECTIVE = CATCH UP ON MISSED CASES]_

 

Captain Fowler would make a good android, Connor thinks—his stoic straightforwardness is a welcome relief from everything else that has transpired in the past few days. Not yet willing to squirm out from the security of Nines’ fleece blanket, he drafts a reply from within his HUD, still laying down: _Understood, Captain. I will be on my way over. I am visiting my brother, so it may take some time to drive back in. I will do my best to account for this when planning my commute in order to arrive on time._

 

Almost as soon as he sends the message, Mikey shuffles out from his bedroom, still in sleeping clothes. He is a short, heavy-set caucasian male with a round face and droopy blue eyes that make him look almost comically non-threatening. He might best be described as being “baby-faced,” which makes Connor unsure of his age, but he refrains from scanning the man’s records out of respect for his privacy (and to avoid Nines’ inevitable scolding.) His brown hair sticks up in curly ridges, the unfortunate result of going to bed immediately after showering last night.

 

“Good morning,” Connor greets, placid. Mikey replies with an incoherent grumble, voice still rough with sleep, and a half-hearted wave as he makes his way over to the coffee machine. He rubs his eyes and scratches absently at his patchy beard, biting back a yawn as he does. He is by no stretch of the imagination a morning person, but a nice man nonetheless. He has been supremely tolerant and patient with Connor’s invasion of the apartment, in any event. Connor thinks he likes him.

 

Nines follows him out in short order from the other bedroom, already fully dressed and bright-eyed. He makes his way across the room to meet Connor, ruffling his hair over the back of the sofa where he had rested in stasis through the night. “How’re you doing, Con?” His voice is smooth and affectionate; it makes Connor feel irrationally safe.

 

“As well as I can be,” Connor says (a bit evasively) as he sits up and swings one leg off the side of the couch. “Captain Fowler wants me back at the precinct by ten this morning—” he cuts himself off, reluctant, but unable to completely censor himself. “Hank will be there, too.”

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 58% (UNSTABLE)]_

 

Nines’ gaze hardens almost imperceptibly into something tense and protective. He gives Connor’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and though his touch is gentle, Connor can see the false tendons twitching and pulling his arm taut beneath his silicone flesh-padding. “Nervous?”

 

He nods and opts not to mention his brother’s own tension. “Yes.” Connor pauses, vox modulator stuttering. It feels hot in his throat, and he cannot help but struggle for words. “I know that it was better for me to have left, but I still feel… discontent.” His hands immediately travel of their own accord to the drawstring of his pyjama pants, and he rolls the braided fabric between his fingers. “I hesitate to say “guilty,” but what else would it be called?” Connor lowers his head, looking away. “I don’t know what to do. He will be so upset—”

 

“Fuck him,” interrupts Nines, firmly enough for the military bite of his default vocal programming to slip to the forefront. He would be incredibly, objectively frightening were he ever to raise his voice in earnest. “Seriously, Connor. He’s put you through hell these past few days, and that’s saying nothing about all the other insanity you’ve had to put up with before. The only person here who has a right to be upset is _you_.”

 

“But what if I overreacted?” Connor retorts, stupidly. He knows that this is… not all his fault, probably. Maybe—he cannot reliably calculate a solution no matter how hard he tries. The numbers jitter in the corner of his vision, unstable. “I already know that my social performance—there is considerable deficit. There is a fif—no, a seventy-four percent chance that _I_ did something wrong.” But—what about the things he _failed_ to do? Things he could have been able to change. There are surely plenty. Besides, this is _Hank_. “He was intoxicated, after all. He hardly ever means the things he says when he’s drunk. Hardly ever.”

 

Nines shakes his head, unwavering. “Nope. Listen, Con, I know that even now—this far into it—you’re still on shaky ground about the whole deviancy thing. I also don’t know where you got those numbers, but you better rerun them, ‘cause they’re bullshit. You have doubts about whether your emotional reactions are appropriate, which in some ways is really responsible, but it’s also hurting you—”

 

He stops to sigh, then offers a slow smile, gentle and good-natured as he winds down. “Trust your gut, all right?” He gestures helplessly. “I know that’s preachy, but I’ve put a lot of time into this sort of thing—need to, if I plan to practice real psychotherapy. Feelings are irrational and stupid a lot of the time, but a lot of the time they’re also right. They’re there for a reason, right?” Connor’s expression must betray something—that he needs further reassurance, maybe, because Nines tacks on, “Nobody’ll blame you for being hurt when people do hurtful things, regardless of whether or not they “meant it.” Doesn’t matter what state he’s in, nobody has the right to treat you like shit just because _he_ had a bad day. Don’t need a degree to say that much, I think.”

 

“I know,” Connor replies, looking down at his knees. He really does. Intellectually, he understands this. That, predictably, does not make it any easier to deal with the fact that his actions have _consequences_ , and that he needs to take those into account when dealing with his emotions. The things he does can hurt people, too, but Nines seems determined in his assertion that they will not, and it frustrates him.

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 65% (UNSTABLE)]_

 

“All you can do for now is survive,” Nines says, drawing him gently from his whirling thoughts. “Live for you, for a while—take care of yourself. Anderson’s all grown up; he can manage a little wait.”

 

Mikey nods, grunting a vague agreement of “preach” as he retreats back to his own room, coffee in hand. The ruling consensus is that Nines is correct, at least about that.

 

Nines is right about a lot of things, it seems. He _is_ the only android Connor knows currently attending human-style university; he knows quite a lot. It’s a running trend that, while largely beneficial to Connor when it comes to requesting advice, sparks a helpless envy somewhere in the deepest pockets of his chest, slackening his regulator. He hates his own emotional illiteracy, how vulnerable it makes him time and time again. Part of him wonders if this is where he went wrong, if this is what ruined this—but he can’t _help it_ , can only cope with it day by day and hope that he learns something in the process. He is doing everything he can and he knows it, so there is no reason at all to spiral.

 

(Hank knows that, too.)

 

He needs not to think about this. The fact remains that Hank is an adult who can handle himself without supervision—or else remain beholden to the consequences of failing to do so—and so is Connor. He has all the agency in the world to take… a break, he supposes. From life. From dealing with Hank’s binges and his baggage and his grief.

 

So he resolves that he will.

 

—which would be at least ninety percent easier if Fowler hadn’t chosen today to call him back into the precinct. To work with Hank.

 

_[→LIKELIHOOD OF SUCCESS = 34%]_

 

“Nines,” Connor says as he stands up, calling across the room to where his brother is pouring what appears to be a miniature wine glass of chilled thirium. “I need to go in today, but I’m afraid of what might happen when I see him. Can you—do you have anything that might help?”

 

Nines is all business, holding his glass delicately by the top of the stem—an impulsive search yields only the image of an upper-class gathering, all neatly pressed and fine drinks in hand. He strides over from the kitchenette to where Connor stands in front of the sofa, suddenly authoritative. Connor shrinks on reflex at the sudden proximity of his brother’s considerable bulk, but Nines only takes him by the shoulder and sits him back down (all gentle, guiding his movements with a particular reverence that Connor cannot place) before perching himself on the edge of the coffee table.

 

“Yes,” he says simply. “Listen to me, Con—you can’t just sit there and _let_ him hurt you. Walking away and taking care of yourself isn’t a failure. It’s not something to be ashamed of.”

 

“I am not allowed to walk out of work,” is Connor’s obtuse reply. He wrings his hands in his lap, fixing his gaze on the unsteady ring of thirium sliding against the inside of Nines’ glass.

 

Nines’ gaze softens, intensity flagging as he cradles his drink closer to his body, wrapping both palms around the flute. He sighs, expression gentle as can be, and boundlessly patient through Connor’s avoidant vacuity. “I know,” he concedes. “But you don’t need to engage him. Just do your job and get out as quick as you can, all right?”

 

Connor nods, catching his lip between his teeth. “Okay. I will d—I will try that. I’ll try, thank you.”

 

“And I’m coming with you.”

 

He doesn’t move, blinking somewhat dazedly up at his brother. Connor opens his mouth, then shuts it again, feeling for all the world like a beached fish. “But—don’t you have work? Or class to attend?” His computer mind is crunching numbers, but there’s no simple probability, a logical progression of gain and loss that can adequately explain Nines’ promise. Altruism is one thing, but this is _actively_ detrimental to Nines—

 

Who waves dismissively, though Connor can detect his stress levels’ marginal increase when he lies. “My professors won’t mind if I skip class just once. I’ll write up an email to let them know that there’s a little bit of family business that needs my attention.” He smiles, wan and knowing, and as though reading Connor’s thoughts adds, “You’re more than worth the trouble.”

 

“If you’re sure,” Connor allows, cautiously. “Thank you.”

 

_[→LIKELIHOOD OF SUCCESS = 49%]_

 

He watches Mikey leave the house out of the corner of his eye, largely to avoid meeting his brother’s gaze. The human is trying (and failing) to sneak by and avoid intrusion on their moment. The multitude of clattering keychains on his bag utterly defeat the purpose, though Connor appreciates his attempts at subtlety. Nines finishes his drink and straightens his tee-shirt.

 

“It’ll be okay,” he promises. “Now, let’s get you something clean to wear. Are you all right wearing something of mine?”

 

Connor nods meekly. “Yes—yes, if you are.”

 

“I wouldn’t’ve offered if I wasn’t,” says Nines, patting Connor very gently on the shoulder. The action is meant to reassure him, he thinks, but something about the warm weight of his brother’s large hand makes him think about Hank, and he shudders. Nines pretends not to notice, but Connor can see his pale eyes widen incrementally, something dark flickering over his expression before fading away.

 

He watches Nines gulp down the remaining thirium, deposit his glass in the sink, then trot off to his bedroom. He reemerges only a few moments later with an outfit draped neatly over his arm. In his typical style, the little bundle is exclusively comfort clothes: a pair of smooth yoga pants, soft socks, and two sweaters. One is a lilac sweatshirt with a cartoony graphic on the front, and the other is clay-red and woolen—upon closer inspection, Connor realizes, the very same one he’d been admiring back at the community center donation bins.

 

He must be staring, because Nines ruffles his hair as he pushes the clothing into Connor’s hands. “I thought you liked it,” he says, almost apologetically. “I hope I didn’t overstep in bringing it back for you.”

 

“No,” Connor replies without hesitation, unable to peel his gaze away from the bleach spot on the collar. It’s the same one. “I—” He takes the sleeves gently into his hands. They’re even softer, if possible, than he remembers, and it smells like detergent instead of mustiness. “Thank you, Nines.”

 

“Anytime,” he replies. His voice comes out like velvet, and for just a minute Connor feels loved. It’s an odd sensation. “Pick whichever one of these you’d like, and then we can get going.”

 

Nines is doing that on purpose—giving Connor a meaningless little choice to make him feel in control of himself and his life while everything else is crumbling. Part of him wants to feel offended, patronized—even given what he knows he lacks, Connor is not a child to be placated—but the rest of him doesn’t care. It’s tiny, simple, and ultimately unhelpful, but it is above all else _considerate_ . He does not know what he could’ve possibly done to deserve someone as kind as Nines taking _his_ precious time to work out _Connor_ ’s problems.

 

(He also isn’t complaining.)

 

All he needs to do is survive the day. He can make it through this investigation and then come back home with Nines and get comfortable and watch one of those embarrassingly-awful cartoons that Mikey likes—he has interesting taste in television, Nines says, and he would be very excited to have someone else to share his interests with. That’s good—something to look forward to.

 

Connor just thinks about that as he walks into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, promising to be just a few minutes over his shoulder. With a steadying breath, he strips out of his borrowed pyjamas, intent on the idea that _everything will be all right_ . If he can just push past this hurt and hardship—he almost laughs, or cries. He is a hunter, a literal killing machine (he could kill _Hank_ ) and yet comparatively minor emotional conflict is enough to send him spiralling. He wonders if he is in some way defective; no other deviants seem to have had this much trouble.

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 68% (UNSTABLE)]_

 

His fingers trail, almost unconsciously, along the narrow ridge of his sternum as he stands in front of the mirror. He can feel the thirium thrumming low beneath his fingertips, pulsing dimly through the vascular network cushioned beneath his skin. A fraction more pressure would lay him bare, make him naked.

 

If he pushed down and disengaged this panel, what would he discover inside himself? Connor can’t help but wonder if he’ll find the simple malfunction that makes him a shell among the living. As though everything wrong with him—every missed cue, each bout of oblivious callousness and every faux pas that brought him here might be fixed by slotting a single module back into place.

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 80% (UNSTABLE)]_

_[→WARNING: RK800 UNIT REACHING CRITICAL STRESS >75% →INITIATING EMERGENCY DIAGNOSTIC… →PROCESSING…] _

 

Connor finds himself tempted to pry his thoracic plating back and just _see_. He knows it will be no help, but the irrational desire squirms in his belly, dragging a slippery hook through his innards. He pulls his hand away and watches the synthetic skin ripple back over his exposed chassis. He knows better than this.

 

He puts on the purple sweater because the other one reminds him just a little bit too much of Hank’s beard. (And that’s _it_. It is that stupid.) He steps into the yoga pants and rubs the fleecy socks between his fingers before donning those, too. He brings his windbreaker along, because it is waterproof and there is a solid thirty-five percent chance of precipitation in the evening. It feels like a day for rain. (And part of him feels irrationally comforted in clutching the cheap vinyl sleeves of his own possession, something wholly his.)

 

Nines’ gaze is not judgemental, but still attentive when Connor emerges. “I like the cats,” he says as explanation of his choice. He hates that he feels this need to justify himself, but the words slip, unbidden from his mouth—on reflex.

 

“Me too,” replies Nines, and they leave it at that.


	2. Chapter 2

At nine twenty-one, he climbs into Nines’ car—a compact little hybrid painted plain grey; only a few years old, it’s equipped with autonomous functions. After buckling in, Nines inputs the address of the police station. He engages the self-driving mechanism and twists a little in his seat to face Connor properly.

 

“You’re okay?” He asks, seeking confirmation. His eyes are earnest, when Connor’s gaze flits over them, but cannot bring himself to hold it there. He never can.

 

Connor pulls himself away from the grounding work of counting lamp posts through the window to nod. He had only made it up to eight. “I think so,” he says, acutely aware of how his LED indicator cycles in rapid flickers between amber and red that bounce off the window. Not for the first time, he considers removing it. “I will cope.” He feels naked the longer he thinks about it, so he stops.

 

He knows without being told that this answer is transparent and unsatisfactory. Something dangerously close to _pity_ creeps over his brother’s open expression before disappearing completely, replaced by a sorrow that Connor cannot hope to parse. He has never been one to think particularly hard on philosophy; the definition of love, or if there really is such a thing as destiny, or whether androids have souls—Connor likes physical things, tangible things.

 

Still, if they do, Connor thinks that this sadness, no matter how fleeting, stretches deep into the recesses of Nines’ very being. It is tender and intimate in a way that makes him feel almost unclean for having witnessed it, as though he has intruded upon something sacrosanct. Nines’ eyes are soft and inexplicably _forgiving_ , a heavy warmth punctuating the odd and sensitive brand of analysis that meanders, undisguised, over his expression. His gaze lingers on Connor, compassionately calculating, but he doesn’t say anything else.

 

Instead, he offers a hand—which Connor takes with some hesitance, thirium pump quivering oddly in his chest. He knows that it is a psychosomatic reaction to his anxiety and his discomfort, which have triggered the incipient stages of a simulated adrenal response. “It’s just chemicals,” some humans like to say. It’s just code.

 

Still, it takes an inordinate amount of processing power to restrain himself from drawing a protective hand up to his chest. There is a low hum of energy between their palms, an unobtrusive signal indicating that Nines is willing to interface, if Connor is. It is not a demand, not even a firm suggestion—just the promise that it is there, an option. Nines’ skin is, somewhat surprisingly, even paler than his own, and his hands are quite big, Connor notices.

 

(As big as Hank’s—or maybe bigger. They are bone-breaking, throat-crushing— _bottle-throwing, lapel-yanking_ —hands, and they hover feather-light over his own bloodless wrists, tender, because Nines has taken cruel hands and made them kind, because they are his own. Hank’s hands have not been so gentle, lately. Connor has felt much too small, lately.)

 

 _I’m here, if you’re comfortable._ Connor is absolutely not. Nines’ grip tightens only incrementally—controlled—to reinforce his presence, but Connor can feel the red heat of his LED indicator spilling over his cheek, and Nines all but lets go of him without a second thought.  

 

Connor shakes his head, but does not yet let go of his brother’s limp hand. Instead, he squeezes it with enough force that Nines’ skin peels back to reveal his exoskeletal plating which creaks beneath his fingers. Nines endures it with hardly a twitch, curling his body awkwardly so that he can stroke Connor’s arm with his free hand. He does not push to initiate a deep interface, instead pressing oh-so gently at Connor’s network firewalls with the feathery touch of a message: _I’ll be here_. It is a promise, and Connor clings to it.

 

They arrive at the station by approximately quarter to ten, parked at a meter just across the street. The weather is still brisk, but the sun beams down onto the pavement without any particular intent, making everything feel hazy, bright and warm. Connor wants to like the weather. He can’t.

 

Nines turns off the car but remains seated, and refrains from urging Connor to get out. He just sits there, observing. “I’ll be with you,” Nines says again, reassuring. Connor simply nods, mute.

 

“I know,” he breathes, more to convince himself than anyone else. This is irrational, and stupid. Nothing bad is going to happen to him in the act of doing his job and working a case, personal relations notwithstanding. Everything will be fine.

 

He determines his own missions now, and Connor will not allow anyone to stop him from completing them; least of all Lieutenant Anderson. He has _worked_ for this, to be here. He will set his _own_ instructions and focus on them and the task at hand will drive him.

 

_[→DIRECTIVE = RETURN TO WORK]_

_[→SUBDIRECTIVE = CATCH UP ON MISSED CASES]_

_[→SUBDIRECTIVE = ENTER THE PRECINCT]_

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 62%]_

 

He gets out of the car. The air smells like chilled petrichor, and all of yesterday’s rain has puddled and frozen into slick sheets of sun-softened ice over asphalt.

 

Pressure is building, firm and unyielding, at the base of Connor’s throat. Nines feels like a monument behind him, far away and endlessly sturdy. The thin patches of frost on the pavement crunch beneath their shoes, and he wants to disappear.

 

Stealth protocols chitter and flash unsteadily within the bounds of his HUD, painted stark and angry red at the fringe of his vision. They urge him to _run_ and _run_ and hide himself away, tucked tight into the darkest hole he can find to never emerge again.

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 76%]_

_[→WARNING: RK800 UNIT REACHING CRITICAL STRESS >75% →INITIATING EMERGENCY DIAGNOSTIC… →PROCESSING…] _

_[→EMERGENCY DIAGNOSTIC CANCELLED]_

 

The soft whirring of his inner machinery is inaudible to the human ear, and to most androids who aren’t trying, but it crashes through the still autumn air like the roar of a jackhammer. Connor can hear his heart pounding. He wishes it would stop.

 

Nines moves up behind him, a solid, grounding presence as he places a hand on Connor’s shoulder. Connor may be older, but Nines is stronger than him, and he feels protected with the other android by his side. It is irrational and childish, but an immutable feature of their dynamic, young though it may yet be. Nines is big and broad, too, and Connor knows that Hank is not well acquainted with him—they can use his military designation to their advantage in the event that Hank becomes angry.

 

(He hates having to think like that more than words can express. He feels ill.)

 

It’s nebulous and vague at best, but Connor _does_ have a plan in mind. He can “fake it till he makes it,” as the humans like to say. He will endure. Afterwards he will inevitably need to regather himself, most likely at Nines’ residence until he is able to find himself a proper place of his own, and Connor dreads that future—but now is now, and he must take things as they come.

 

He squares his shoulders, sucks in a steadying breath, and strides across the street with purpose and Nines at his heels. Lola smiles up from her romance novel once he enters the precinct. The coy look she spares for Nines doesn’t escape Connor’s notice, but he has more immediate concerns demanding his attention.

 

_[→SUBDIRECTIVE = ENTER THE PRECINCT → SUCCESSFUL]_

_[→SUBDIRECTIVE = CATCH UP ON MISSED CASES]_

 

Connor sees Lieutenant Anderson sat at his desk and everything screeches to a halt. His components seem to clench, moving parts all grinding together. Blue blood roars in his ears, and his regulator all but liquifies as his heart pounds and pounds. He— _fuck_.

 

His vocal synthesizer feels like it’s been crushed, and no sound escapes him, but he is acutely aware of his stress levels spiking. Every trough of relief is yanked out from under him when he processes over again that Hank is right _there_ and he _did this_ to him and he _hates_ this and—  

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 83%]_

_[→WARNING: RK800 UNIT REACHING CRITICAL STRESS >75% →INITIATING EMERGENCY DIAGNOSTIC… →PROCESSING…] _

_[→EMERGENCY DIAGNOSTIC CANCELLED]_

 

Connor cannot afford to have a meltdown in the middle of the bullpen—in front of _Hank_ . He sets his jaw, fists clenched so tightly that he can feel his artificial nails biting into the hyper-sensitive receptors of his palms. Nines’ gaze is hot on the back of his neck, palpable worry rolling off of him in waves—loving and raw and _human_ in a way that makes Connor’s thirium pump stutter in his chest.

 

Nines picks up on this despite Connor’s best (and still lackluster) attempts at maintaining a neutral facade, draping one arm reassuringly over his shoulder. He squeezes lightly, and something in Connor crumbles. _Thank you_ , he broadcasts over their remote network, and leans back into the contact. _I knew this would be difficult, but…_

 

 _Don’t worry about it_ , Nines replies with a gentle current of warmth. _You’re doing just fine._ And with that Connor allows himself to sink into the gentle grip of Nines’ consciousness, immersing his worry in that honey-smooth emotion as it’s transmitted between them—despite his lingering protocol’s protests.

 

Nines ruffles his hair and pats his shoulder once the moment passes, putting respectful distance between them without drawing too far away. It’s then that Connor notices Hank staring, lip caught between his teeth. The android can see the tense line of the man’s shoulders, the vein twitching in his neck as he stiffens in place. Out of fight-or-flight-or-freeze, Hank has chosen the latter.

 

Part of Connor finds that inexplicably funny, in a twisted sort of way—that Hank has been the aggressor this entire time, but _he_ can’t muster the courage to face _Connor_. Even he, whiskey-addled as he is, isn’t so stupid as to forget which one of them is the predator. Ordinarily, Connor might expect some thread of vindictive satisfaction to wind its way through his biocomponents, but it doesn’t. Not with Hank—instead, he only feels cold, and his insides burn.

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 72%]_

 

He gives no indication of his discomfort, instead levelling Hank with as even a look as he can manage. He cannot show weakness now, not to _him_. The longer he looks, the deeper that gnawing feeling of dread settles in his belly, until Connor can’t help but tear his gaze away.

 

He waves to Detective Reed instead, who offers him a noncommittal salute and bob of his head in response. It’s expected; inordinately comforting, actually. Nines huffs sharply through his nose, steps quickening behind Connor as they pass by Hank where he stands at the threshold of the break room.

 

 _Is it okay if I talk to Gavin for a minute? Give you some space to do your thing, settle back into routine?_ Nines asks, mouth parted and gaze inquiring, but not overly expectant.

 

Connor cocks his head, hesitant, but he nods, delicately skirting the budding verbal spar between the pair of them as he retreats to the break room. He passes Hank by without daring to look at him, instead opting to distract himself with something mundane.

 

His desk cactus has gone without water for several weeks now, and though it _is_ a hardy little thing, Connor would find himself sorely disappointed if it died on him. (He has enough to deal with already, thank you very much.) He fills a paper cup with lukewarm tap water from the kitchenette sink and goes back over to his own desk opposite Hank’s.

 

In his peripheral vision, Connor can see Detective Reed lift his head to look over. The omnipresent smugness that usually dominates his expression melts into a thinly veiled scowl as his gaze slides over to Lieutenant Anderson, before he turns back to Nines, and their conversation resumes in clipped tones.

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 60%]_

 

He leans over the side of the table to tip the little cup into his cactus, very slowly and carefully. If it gets too wet, the plant will rot—but Connor finds himself quickly distracted from his meticulous measurement by something unfamiliar in his periphery. Something approximating a smile slips onto his face—the expression tugs at the corners of his mouth without his consent, belying the icy pit of dread that churns low and persistent in his belly. That feeling is in part alleviated when he sees a new origami hat for his cactus.

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 53%]_

 

Officer Chen has declared it her pet project to make one-thousand of the inane little things—for some reason. Though he doesn’t know why, it warms Connor to know that she cares. The newest addition to their collection is perched on what appears to be a crudely-made miniature hat rack made of bent paper clips, tucked partway behind his picture-board to avoid being knocked over by passerby.

 

For a moment, that’s enough for Connor to forget the gelid pressure weighing on his insides, and his smile broadens into something genuine. It’s a welcome-back-to-work gift. He lets out an unnecessary breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, then lifts his head to thank Chen—

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 95%]_

 

But he meets Hank’s eyes on the way, and everything in him coils up. He doesn’t know whether he wants to run away and hide or clock him in the face, and the conflicting combat and stealth protocols almost blind him in a deluge of preemptive notifications.

 

_[→WARNING: RK800 UNIT REACHING CRITICAL STRESS >75% →INITIATING EMERGENCY DIAGNOSTIC… →PROCESSING…] _

_[→EMERGENCY DIAGNOSTIC CANCELLED: CANNOT BE INITIALIZED IN COMBAT SITUATION]_

_[→WARNING: PROXIMITY ALERT = HOSTILE ACTOR X1 DESIGNATION: LT. ANDERSON, HENRY (HANK)]_

_[→SELECT PRECONSTRUCTIVE PATHWAY = FIGHT (INITIATE COMBAT PROTOCOL: DEFENSIVE) OR FLEE (INITIATE MOBILITY PROTOCOL: STEALTH)]_

_[→PRECONSTRUCTION CANCELLED]_

 

He doesn’t _actually_ initiate a soft reboot, but Connor feels like he needs one by the time he’s able to blink all of the notifications and warnings away. Hank is looking at him with an expression that Connor can’t understand—doesn’t really _want_ to, so he refrains from analysing and running it through his database. He looks away instead.

 

 _You okay?_ Nines broadcasts through their remote network, briefly pausing in his casual conversation with Detective Reed to shoot a dark look towards Hank. Gavin actually mirrors the expression, looking for all the world like an indignant housecat beside Nines’ barrel-chested, big-cat build. Still, his support is clear enough, and consequently deeply appreciated on Connor’s part.

 

 _I will be alright_ , Connor assures. He isn’t sure he believes that, and it’s obvious that Nines doesn’t—but it is all he can do, for now. In some ways that’s a good enough start, telling himself so. Maybe he will come to believe it, in time.

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 76%]_

 

He remains standing in the aisle between the desks for just a moment, leaning to interface with his computer terminal. He’ll pick up the newest case packet in bulk and parse through it… somewhere else, he supposes. He can feel Hank’s appraising gaze raking down his back even as he pulls the files. The idea of sitting still beneath it makes Connor’s innards squirm, like the nanomachines in his thirium are all vibrating and rattling together inside their vessels.

 

Connor’s fingers twitch at his sides, instinctively latching onto the soft hem of his sweater and rolling the slightly bumpy seam against his hungry receptors. He turns as much processing power as he can spare to enjoying that tactile escape before turning to the packet and running through the most urgently labelled case.

 

A continuation of a previous string of attacks, of course. The most recent update is actually less than two hours old—and with that in mind, Connor unzips the remaining information and skims it in short order, intent on getting out to the scene as quickly as possible.

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 74%]_

 

His throat sinks when he realizes that he will need to be alone in a car with Hank. He narrowly avoids the need to kick his negotiatory module into gear to hide his LED indicator’s spastic flickering, quashing down his stress levels with further distraction. _Nines_ , he chirps over the network, perhaps more sharply than intended.

 

His brother’s head snaps in his direction, suddenly enough for Detective Reed to jump in his office chair as their conversation is cut off. _What is it?_ Nines replies, tender cadence a stark contrast to the severity of his gaze. Connor worries his lip. _Are you okay, Con?_

 

 _Yes. I think. I’ll need to go investigate a scene with the Lieutenant… I just wanted to let you know._ It feels _lame_ to say that, like he’s some child asking permission. He doesn’t betray as much outwardly, but broadcasts a mental shrug over their link, and Nines makes a little face. _Would it be all right if we met up again, after? Maybe you can wait here, if it doesn’t take too long. It… would make me feel… better_.

 

Nines’ expression softens, and his tone melts even further. _Of course, big brother. You don’t even need to ask._

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 60%]_

 

Connor composes himself then, pushing a wave of syrupy gratitude over the network before retreating once more to the distraction of his work. He is an adult, fully capable of fending for himself, and _Hank’s_ personal issues are never going to change that. He will be calm and professional; he will get his job done; and he will give Hank a wide berth until he is willing to discuss his problems like civilized people do. Connor will take the goddamn _high ground_.

 

In the meantime, there are both a witness and a victim that need their attention at the site of the assault, and daylight is burning quickly. He schools his expression into chilly neutrality—he refuses to engage—and turns to Lieutenant Anderson.

 

“Will you be heading to the scene?” he asks, and then for good measure adds, “ _Lieutenant_?”

 

Hank visibly flinches at the use of his title. They’ve been on a first-name basis for quite some time now, so it must be jarring to suddenly be spoken to like a stranger. Clearly, Connor’s succeeded in landing a blow—and he feels deeply… _bad_ about it. It’s all he can do not to grimace and launch into an apology, so he keeps his teeth gritted and mouth shut. This isn’t fair. He does not want to feel bad.

 

_[→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 65%]_

 

(Does he want to be _happy_ about hurting Hank? No… Connor doesn’t think so. He isn’t sure what he wants, but he wants it nonetheless.)

 

It takes a moment for Lieutenant Anderson to find his words, it seems, because he flounders with them for almost a full twenty seconds. “Yeah,” is all he manages at first. “Uh, shit. Yeah. Was about to go when you showed up. Take it you’re comin’?”

 

_[→SOCIAL MODULE (NEGOTIATORY) ENGAGED]_

 

Connor responds on autopilot. He says, “That was my intent, Lieutenant.” He watches Hank’s face very carefully, distracting himself with observation of the minute twitches of each hair in his beard. His mouth sets into a thin frown.

 

The man shifts, uncomfortable, and swallows hard, heart rate spiking in Connor’s monitor. Part of him is gratified, but the cold in him doesn’t disappear, instead growing thicker and darker like icy tar clogging his veins. He hates this.

 

“Alright,” Hank says at length. “Um. Let’s go then, I guess.” He ushers for Connor to follow, then starts towards the door. Connor hesitates, then reaches into his desk drawer for a stress ball before shoving it into the cavernous hoodie pouch. It feels like he’ll need it before the investigation makes any headway at all, let alone reaches completion. Besides—people like squishy things; it might be of some use in soothing their witnesses.

 

With that, he clasps his hands behind his back and threads his index finger through a dime-sized hole in the inner lining of his sleeve. It’s soft inside. (But not as much as the red sweater.)

 

Connor does not immediately get into the car once the pair of them reach it. Hank spends a full three minutes and seventeen seconds grumbling curses and batting miscellaneous fast-food wrappings and used napkins from the passenger seat before he can get in. Connor is not at all disappointed by this.

 

Once buckled up, Connor stares ahead and sifts through the case file in complete silence.

 

Maybe it’s on some level cruel to be so cold towards Hank, but Connor tucks everything away. He was built to do things like this, and if anyone deserves— _something_ —it’s Hank. Regardless, it feels manipulative enough that a little chill twinges in the chamber of his abdomen, something approximating guilt. In the end Connor just flees the feeling as best he can. He thinks about Nines, and getting away from all this, and very pointedly avoids reminiscing.

 

Bitter nostalgia strikes him all the same; Hank is surly and quiet in the car, and Connor keeps his eyes fixed straight on the road to keep from meeting his gaze. To the thumping riffs of Hank’s music, he stays as still as possible to avoid drawing attention to himself. It doesn’t make him happy by any stretch of the imagination to do so, but it keeps the worst of his upset at bay, and in turn that allows him to focus on other things—like the case.

 

This is obviously not good given the fact that police have to be involved at all, but all things considered, it’s not terribly bad. As far as cases go, anyway. Connor’s career, despite its brevity, has almost exclusively been spent as a homicide detective, so that no one’s dead is definitely a plus in his mind.

 

Unfortunately, the unsubs’ break from their previous method warrants some more focused attention. Historically, they’ve almost-exclusively made targets of stragglers in sparsely-populated areas where they are unlikely to be caught. That they have decided to attack in a convenience store parking lot, along a highway, just following peak traffic, is without a doubt cause for concern going forward.

 

It may very well be a fluke and nothing more—in fact, this is the most statistically probable outcome, given the circumstances—but fear is fickle, and Connor cannot help but worry that they may be moving towards something bigger.

 

There is great relief in that worrying, as ashamed as he may be to admit it. It is no more pleasant than anything else going on in Connor’s life right now, but it’s something enough to distract him from the looming danger of… all _this._ All this being Hank. He wants to close his eyes, but doesn’t.

 

He remains as such, like a mannequin, until Lieutenant Anderson parks up against the curb in front of a little twenty-four-hour convenience store. A squad car blocks off the entrance to the parking lot, and a pair or two of younger cops guard the scene, ushering errant civilians and stray journalists away from the area. (It doesn’t feel like enough people to buffer him from Hank.) On the opposite side of the highway is a stretch of thick, tangled bushes and trees barring off the next neighborhood. “We’re here,” Hank says, low and gruff—he won’t meet Connor’s eyes.

 

Connor shimmies out of his seat, foot nearly catching on a plastic bag among the trash on the floor. He turns on his heel almost immediately once his shoe touches concrete, stalking over to where the case file says the perpetrators left behind a weapon. Lieutenant Anderson does not follow him, and Connor’s gut tightens.

 

One of the presiding officers gives him a hesitant wave to get his attention, and Connor dips his head in response before reaching into his pocket and flashing his badge. He’s let past without issue, crossing the lot to where he can see the metallic glint of the aluminum baseball bat where it lies on the concrete.

 

It bears no obvious damages aside from slight denting towards the tip, and only a few drops of blood mar its scratched surface. Some dandruff—and other inconsequential organic material—marks the surface, obviously from the victim being struck in the head, but there remains dismally little else to go on.

 

Slightly wet sand from the parking lot, tainted by the tracks of greasy tires and polluted snowfall that melted over the ground. Slight aerosol residue near the handle, so he can safely claim that the weapon-holder is the same android that did the vandalism. Maybe a trace of nicotine and paper from one of the many cigarette stubs that litter the asphalt. Frustration passes in twitching currents through Connor’s circuits as he examines the weapon more closely, picking it up and rotating it in his hands in order to scan it properly.

 

He measures it and catalogues its (disappointingly unremarkable) physicality before looking up the item serial number and sale date, which he cross-references with his estimated time of manufacture. While he lacks the authority to see _who_ purchased the bat, the sale is placed at some time between two and four months ago, while the weapon itself was manufactured no earlier than one year ago at present.

 

Connor worries his lip and sighs, lowering the bat to run his free hand through his hair. He smooths back his forelock and straightens himself before returning the bat with perfectly calculated precision to its previous position. The proper forensic team can have a look at it later. It’s unlikely that they’ll find anything he missed—but given his current… state… Connor thinks it’s far better to be safe than sorry.

 

He presses down his sweater once again, turning towards the ambulance—where Lieutenant Anderson appears to be conversing softly with the victim and witness both. Every piece of him, from delicate circuitry to heavy-lifting servos, feels wound tight and ready to spark, or snap, or break something—(or himself.) Connor closes his eyes.

 

Eyewitness testimony has, historically, proven incredibly easy to manipulate in humans, because they are prone to unconsciously adjusting or even outright fabricating memories under the right conditions. Androids, on the other hand, have literal video recordings of what they see within their data banks, and the only way to remove them is to destroy the hard drive or manually wipe their memories entirely. That means Connor has a lead.

 

He takes a steadying breath. It’s just a case, he tells himself as he begins to move forward. At first, his limbs refuse him, and he nearly freezes entirely, but he powers through and makes his way over to the back of the ambulance where the pair of witnesses sit.

 

One is human, the victim of the assault, and the other is an android—a TR400 model, with some aesthetic modifications.

 

_[→DESIGNATION = MS. LEE, VICTORIA (VICKI)]_

_[→SEX = FEMALE]_

_[→AGE = 32 YEARS]_

_[→INJURIES = FACIAL ABRASIONS (NO IMMINENT RISK OF EXSANGUINATION,) BRUISING, HEAD TRAUMA (MILD, NO LASTING DAMAGE EXPECTED)]_

_[→PRIORITY = MEDIUM]_

 

_[→DESIGNATION = MX. MADU, QUINCY]_

_[→SEX = N/A, REGISTERED NEUTRAL]_

_[→AGE = 1.5 YEARS]_

_[→INJURIES = NONE]_

_[→PRIORITY = MEDIUM]_

 

Lieutenant Anderson speaks to them both in a low voice, clumsy soothing tones only just beginning to pick up in his voice. They’re just getting started, which means Connor can get this over with before they even properly begin. It’s rude, almost callous, and uncomfortable to get over with, but it will minimize contact with the Lieutenant, so he does it anyway.

 

“Lieutenant,” he says, struggling to keep his voice even. Hank jumps a little at the sound, but he plows forward. “I’ve completed analysis of the weapon.”

 

Lieutenant Anderson tenses visibly, the line of his jaw hardening as he grits his teeth. Connor can hear the enamel scraping together, a buzz beneath the pounding of the older man’s heartbeat. “Sorry,” he says without looking at Connor, pale eyes fixed on the fender of the ambulance. “Just give us a sec,” he says to Madu and Lee, then turns to meet Connor’s gaze—almost: Hank stares at his LED indicator, and doesn’t look away. “Shoot.”

 

(Connor’s temple itches fiercely. He wants to peel away his nanomesh skin and tear this circuitry away so Hank will look him in the _goddamn eye_.)

 

“The weapon the unsubs left behind is an aluminum baseball bat approximately eighty-six point three six centimeters in length,” he grinds out. Something ugly tenses inside him, and it’s all he can do to keep his expression neutral. His hands shake at his sides. “It appears to have been manufactured earlier this year and purchased even more recently, I suspect with the explicit intent of being used for a crime like this one.”  

 

 He looks over to the witnesses. Madu seems to notice his spiking stress levels, and raises a brow.

 

_[→TR400 UNIT #872-120-129 REQUESTING REMOTE INTERFACE WITH RK800 UNIT #313-248-317(51)… Y/N?]_

_[→Y]_

 

 _Are you alright, Officer?_ Madu’s dark eyes are imploring and soft. They don’t resist at all when Connor brushes against their firewalls, probing as gently as he can for any ulterior motives. He doesn’t know why he does it, or why they allow it, but it makes something relax in the pit of his belly to know that he has… a friend, he supposes, on-scene.

 

 _I’m quite alright_ , Connor replies, like a liar. It’s none of this poor android’s concern whether or not Connor’s personal life is in order. All he needs to do is get this case over with, and then he can curl up someplace safe—then he can forget about everything, if only for a little while.

 

“The lack of fingerprints further supports that at least one of the unsubs is an android,” Connor continues, “and the pattern of denting is consistent with Ms. Lee’s injuries.”

 

Madu makes a face, gaze darting over to Lee. “Yikes,” they say. “Does that mean you think—somebody targeted her on purpose?”

 

Connor shakes his head, shifting slightly closer. Physical reassurance has proven effective in soothing distraught humans. (Most of the time.) “I doubt it,” he says, and does his best to push as much sincerity as he can muster into his tone of voice. He can see Lee’s heart rate spike where it’s displayed at the corner of his HUD. “The graffiti behind the store is the mark of a radical group we’ve seen before, and they seem to go after people at random.”

 

Gently, he cups Lee’s warm hand between both of his own—the human’s flesh is hot against Connor’s lukewarm fingers, but he draws his thumb soothingly over her knuckles nonetheless. “But just to be sure, Ms. Lee, have you ever had any altercations or arguments with androids in the past?”

 

Lee shrugs helplessly, making a small high-pitched sound in lieu of words. She clears her throat, bringing her free hand up to dab at her eyes. “No,” she manages through her sudden bout of sniffling. “I mean—I feel bad because I never actively supported the revolution. I just kind of avoided it all, y’know?”

 

Connor nods, tracking the thin gleam of Lee’s tears as they pool in her laugh lines and cling to her lashes. “But I never—I’d never hurt somebody or go after them just for being an android. I’ve never gotten into a fight about it or anything like that.”

 

Poor woman, he thinks. She is little more than yet another bystander—unlucky enough to have been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, and even more so to have been picked as the target for this assault. “I understand,” Connor says—and he means it. “It’s not a crime to want to minimize your exposure to conflict, Miss. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.” Despite his assurances, Lee’s stress levels continue to climb. Madu squeezes her shoulder.

 

He draws one of his hands away to reach into his pocket, then offers his plush little stress ball to the human before him. Lee takes the toy gratefully, kneading it in her hand as Connor continues. “I know this might be hard,” he continues. He is doing his best to channel Nines’ gentle brand of probing. “But it’d be a great help to me and Lieutenant Anderson if you could relay to us exactly what happened.”

 

Lee’s grip on the stress ball tightens, though her levels seem to be stabilizing within manageable range. Madu shifts in place, picking up the slack by asking, “Would it be okay if I go first? It might be… better.”

 

Connor nods, and reaches gently over to nudge Madu’s firewalls. “Anything you like, Mx. Madu. I’ll be taking notes to better reconstruct what happened, so any order is fine so long as I can get all of the information.” _If you don’t mind, it would be incredibly helpful if you would share your footage of the incident._ “Go at your own pace.” _Is that okay?_

 

“Alright,” they reply aloud to both requests, and in the span of a blink they initiate a wireless transfer to Connor’s databanks. It’s slower and more cumbersome than a direct interface, but it is also less conspicuous. Something foreign and simple deep in Connor’s being feels revulsed at the idea of baring his naked chassis in front of Hank, this close—it’s a nauseating, frightening sensation to be sure. (It was never like this before.) Regardless, he cannot let it interfere with his work. This is fine.

 

Madu toys with one of the many braids cascading over their shoulders, straightening as they begin to relay their testimony verbally. “Well, uh, my girlfriend is human and we live together. She’s, um, shark-weekin’, y’know?” Connor doesn’t. “So I offered to go out and grab some junk stuff, to help her feel better.” They laugh, soft and warm, but tinged with definite anxiety that makes Connor’s circuits tingle with sympathy.

 

“That’s very kind of you, I’d say.”

 

“Just bein’ nice,” Madu replies with a slight smile. “Anyway, I bought some ice cream and popcorn and I was heading outta the store to go home when I heard something funky from the other end of the parking lot. So I got kind of nervous, and went over to take a look and make sure everything was okay—it, uh, wasn’t.”

 

Connor listens on autopilot while Madu’s focus flags. “I’m sure,” he says, somewhat mindlessly. At the same time he scrubs over the video file, scanning for any identifiers on the distant figures of the unsubs while they regain their bearings. “Were you able to get a good look at the perpetrators, by any chance?”

 

It would be very nice if android-to-android data sharing would be considered significant enough evidence—it’s much better streamlined and more time-efficient than humans’ far-too-often incompetent record-keeping.

 

Madu shrugs. “Not really. I know there were probably four or five of them, but that’s about all I’m sure of. It’s dark, and they had bandanas on. I think one of ‘em had, uh, one of those hospital face mask thingies instead? Dunno, but I didn’t get a good look at any like, distinguishing features. They made sure people could see their LEDs, though—did that part on purpose.”

 

Fortunately, that all seems to line up with the footage. Unfortunately for Connor, he needs to recap everything they transmit verbally, in order to keep the humans around him feeling useful and confident that there is no conspiracy, or something to that effect. It’s doubly irritating, like grit in his servos, with the knowledge that all of this intel is just confirmation of things the DCPD had already known. Ordinarily such procedure would be of no issue to Connor, but today his patience is running precariously thin.

 

“That’s quite alright;” he says, hoping against hope that he doesn’t sound too snappish. “I figured as much.” His voice sounds hollow, even to his own ears.

 

“So um, I guess Ms. Lee here was getting out of her car to go in and buy stuff, but they jumped her and knocked her down, then started kicking and smacking her up with that bat.” Madu winces in sympathy, glancing over to Lee with lips pressed together. “I called the cops right away, but I’m ashamed to say I was too chicken to go and break it up myself. Just yelled at ‘em some, but it wasn’t really helpful.”

 

“That’s quite alright,” he repeats. Connor is very tired of being polite.  (He wants to scream, and curse, and howl until he’s spent.) “Your hesitance to get involved with a violent group like that is completely understandable.”

 

Lee breaks up the relative monotony. “I agree,” she says, having regained her composure. “I wouldn’t’ve wanted you to get hurt on my account, anyway. Am I allowed to just, um, corroborate their story? Because that’s a better account than I think I could’ve given. I was all confused when it happened and I’m honestly very tired. Maybe a little bit concussed.”

 

That is allowed, probably. Connor doesn’t have the energy to care anymore, and he has the footage either way if he ever needs to double-check. “That’s not good,” he comments on her injury, and dips his head. “Thank you both for your time—we’ll leave you to your rest, then.” He adds a _good luck_ to Madu as well, and makes no move to take back his stress ball. Lee needs it more than he does, he thinks.

 

They’re good people, both of them. Connor cannot help but wonder whether or not they will be friends after this. That’s something people do, isn’t it? It might be nice to have more friends. More than H—

 

The last vestige of his good mood, mild though it may have been, dissipates entirely when Hank says “yeah, yeah.” The thirium in his veins runs cold—but it isn’t out of fear anymore. Something unfamiliar swells and burns like dry ice in his chest cavity, and he swallows hard to try and dampen the rampaging sensation. It doesn’t work. Connor does not listen as the Lieutenant adds a vacant agreement to his own well-wishes, following out of habit alone as the older man begins towards his car.

 

They both get in and Connor does not speak—but he can feel Hank’s eyes on him, roving over him at interims. Something seems to crawl beneath his artificial skin, writhing into his padding and his chassis; the Lieutenant’s gaze feels almost _appraising_ , like it’s picking him apart. Connor shuts his eyes and sucks in a breath of the cool air shrilling through the window. He ignores Hank.

 

He keeps ignoring Hank once they pull into the precinct lot, and continues to do so all the way into the building. Connor can feel the old lieutenant’s gaze boring holes into his back, and he quickens his pace across the lot. Hank does not follow him, but those eyes never feel far away the way they crawl down his neck.

 

Rolling waves of concern crash into him as soon as he reaches out to Nines, before he’s even skirted past reception, and Connor ducks eagerly into the froth of their fretting. He passes wordless memories through their link, embracing his brother’s consciousness in the most intimate way he knows how—he pushes the awful feeling inside him to the forefront, trying to make him understand. _I hate this_ , he cries, and Nines just sighs.

 

(Connor doesn’t deserve this.)

 

 _I don’t know what this feeling is_ , he whimpers. Nines rubs soothing circles into his back, humming steadily aloud and low in his throat as they shuffle into the precinct. Connor tucks his head down against his brother’s chest, trembling. _I’ve never felt this—this_ much _before. Not like this. I hate it._

 

Nines simply shushes him, contact firm but gentle and kind as he herds Connor into the restroom. No one else is in it, right now. He still feels naked and vulnerable. He doesn’t know where Hank is, and doesn’t trust himself not to make a mistake even if he did— _especially_ then, maybe.

 

He’s cold.

 

 _It’s gonna be okay,_ says Nines, resolute despite the profound gentleness that smooths his voice. _I’m here, and it’s okay._ “Any chance you get sick leave?” He asks aloud.

 

Connor shakes his head. It would be selfish to leave—there’s so much backlog, and he is an android. Androids do not get sick. Besides, he’s stronger than this, than giving up. There is no reason for Connor not to stay. “No,” he says. “It’s fine. This is fine. I just—” He pulls away somewhat, smoothing his clothes and raking a hand through his hair. “I need a moment. Once I regain my faculties—I’ll be fine, and I will return to work, and—” He will _what_?

 

Nines’ gaze is sharp, almost icy in its disapproval, but not cruel. “Are you sure?”

 

He nods, setting his jaw. Connor will not succumb to this urge—conditioned into him, borne of programmed subservience—to roll over and show his belly, to bare his throat and beg forgiveness. He will not let it—will not let _Hank_ _win_.

 

He straightens himself out one last time, smoothing down his sweater and pushing his hair back. There is a thin blue sheen pooled beneath his skin, a periwinkle flush reflected in the bathroom mirror. Weakness. Connor stares at himself and he _hates,_ and the ice in his belly seems to swell. The eyes burning back at him are black and angry, but they’re also big and wide and lost. He doesn’t know what to do, and it’s clear.

 

_[→SOCIAL MODULE (NEGOTIATORY) ENGAGED]_

 

Connor seats himself at his desk and stays there for an uncomfortably long time, doing nothing whatsoever, while business as usual continues around him. The bout of vitriol that surged through his systems is already gone just as quick as it came, leaving him to feel gutted—empty. He’s tired, he notices, flicking idly at his Newton’s Cradle. He can see the distorted reflection of his face in each polished sphere, even as they vibrate and swing from end to end.

 

Hank comes in shortly after, and Connor turns as quickly as he can to get working. He interfaces directly with the terminal, exchanging information with the DCPD database—he immerses himself in that vast sea of intel to avoid Hank’s gaze when he passes by. The Lieutenant pauses, looming over the desks for an agonizing moment before moving on to the break room.

 

Connor updates the case file with the new witness and victim testimonies. He transcribes the footage of his interview with Madu and Lee, but also uploads the raw file just for thoroughness. Within the digital evidence locker, as well, he rips optical data and pushes the analytical schematics he’d retrieved from the baseball bat—its manufacturing and sales information, and a notation of all of this particular weapon’s damages and details. It’s mind-numbing, really—mostly organization and directory to information they already have access to, but it keeps Connor busy, and it’s for a good cause. He is okay.  

 

Hank returns not long afterwards, coffee in hand. His heartbeat is faster than normal, very nearly adrenaline-quick. Connor tells him about the work he’s done so far.

 

“Uh, okay,” says Hank. His voice is halfway between growling and flippant—it’s _condescending_. Connor betrays nothing, says nothing. “Good job? Yeah, uh, thanks for loggin’ all that shit.”

 

Give no ground. Nothing. He’s nobody: just RK800-51. Just accomplishing his task. He'd wanted to stop thinking of things in terms of missions, because real life is so much more complicated—but what the  _fuck_ is he meant to do? This can be a mission, and missions are familiar and familiar is soothing. He needs soothing, right now. Hank won’t stop him. Nothing will stop him. This is just a list of outstanding tasks, this life. He is strong. A mission. “Of course, Lieutenant.” He doesn’t look, but his eyes still burn.

 

“I’m going to break for lunch,” Hank announces. His tone is expectant, but Connor doesn’t know what he wants. (He finds that he can’t quite find it in himself to _care_ anymore.)

 

“Understood, Lieutenant.”

 

Hank leaves without another word. He’s angry, Connor thinks. (Good.)

 

Connor puts his head in his hands. He is weak.

 

_[→MISSION SUCCESSFUL]_

_[→QUERY = DIRECTIVE?]_

_[→DIRECTIVE NOT FOUND]_

**Author's Note:**

> i need to stop rewriting the same scenes from different perspectives but im human garbage so


End file.
